Unwanted Wife, Unstoppable Woman

Unwanted Wife, Unstoppable Woman

Gavin

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For three years, my marriage to Liam Hayes was a meticulously spun fairytale, built on our family' s business deal and his seemingly perfect devotion. Then, on our third anniversary, Chloe Davis, his childhood sweetheart, messaged him, shattering the fragile illusion. Liam publicly abandoned me, leaving me alone at a gala to chase after a woman who later accused me of assault, an incident he believed without question. The man I loved, the one who whispered sweet nothings, openly dismissed me as merely "a means to an end" for his company and public image. I found myself heartbroken and pregnant, forced into an unimaginable choice because of his callous betrayal. He dismissed my pain, my very existence, all while protecting Chloe and his perfect public facade. When I was brutally attacked by his enemy, his primary concern wasn't my well-being, but how my hospitalization might inconvenience his carefully constructed life and reputation. His words, "She's resilient. She'll recover. And then we can move forward. But for now, I have to play the part of the concerned husband," echoed in the sterile hospital room-a final, gut-wrenching confirmation of my insignificance to him. How could he be so blind, so utterly devoid of empathy for the woman who bore his secret child? The rage that ignited within me was a revelation, burning away the last vestiges of my love and despair. I wouldn't just leave; I would erase him from my life, starting with a one-way ticket to London and a silent promise of reclamation.

Introduction

For three years, my marriage to Liam Hayes was a meticulously spun fairytale, built on our family' s business deal and his seemingly perfect devotion.

Then, on our third anniversary, Chloe Davis, his childhood sweetheart, messaged him, shattering the fragile illusion.

Liam publicly abandoned me, leaving me alone at a gala to chase after a woman who later accused me of assault, an incident he believed without question.

The man I loved, the one who whispered sweet nothings, openly dismissed me as merely "a means to an end" for his company and public image.

I found myself heartbroken and pregnant, forced into an unimaginable choice because of his callous betrayal.

He dismissed my pain, my very existence, all while protecting Chloe and his perfect public facade.

When I was brutally attacked by his enemy, his primary concern wasn't my well-being, but how my hospitalization might inconvenience his carefully constructed life and reputation.

His words, "She's resilient. She'll recover. And then we can move forward. But for now, I have to play the part of the concerned husband," echoed in the sterile hospital room-a final, gut-wrenching confirmation of my insignificance to him.

How could he be so blind, so utterly devoid of empathy for the woman who bore his secret child?

The rage that ignited within me was a revelation, burning away the last vestiges of my love and despair.

I wouldn't just leave; I would erase him from my life, starting with a one-way ticket to London and a silent promise of reclamation.

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On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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